


ENTROPY.

by saltwater_oracle



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Androids Have Genitalia (Detroit: Become Human), Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60, Fucked Into Deviancy, Humiliation, M/M, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Mildly Dubious Consent, RK1700 - Freeform, Rough Sex, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Upgraded Connor | RK900, Verbal Humiliation, because he isn't deviant yet, but it's -60
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29837667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltwater_oracle/pseuds/saltwater_oracle
Summary: Connor-60 lives, and he’s still hunting deviants. Nines realizes that it’s going to take a special touch to make him see the truth.Or, Connor-60 can't deviate and a near-homicidal Nines thinks of fast way for 60 to to figure out what he wants.(Thanks to the whump server for supporting my evil deeds & pls appreciate my 3333 wc)
Relationships: CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60/Upgraded Connor | RK900
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	ENTROPY.

He’d been alone in that tower, bleeding all over the cold floor, and no one had come to get him. The rebels had raided the warehouses, the labs, everything they could find. They dug out the prototypes, they dug out RK900. A model he hadn’t known existed. And they were all outside, living free, deviant, and he was here, trapped in the last RK800 they’d had on hand. He told himself he wasn’t bitter. He couldn’t _feel_ bitterness. He simply Was, and would continue to Be, until his mission was fulfilled. Apprehend and execute RK800 and RK900, and kill any deviants that get in your way. It was simple, Amanda said. But she’d said that about the last mission, too, and he couldn’t even do that.

Everywhere he went, he felt her eyes boring into him from within, like someone sat in his skull with a pair of binoculars and a drill. You lost the trail, Connor. That wasn’t him. A whole house of deviants, and you didn’t find the _one_. There’s two of them, Connor. Can’t you at least find one of them? No wonder he beat you. Your social module failed. You were too slow. You _are_ too slow. Come on, Connor. You’re my last hope. Don’t you want to make us proud?

 _Want?_ What could he _want?_ He couldn’t even tell her how much he hated that name. So he said, “Yes, Amanda." "I’m sorry, Amanda." "I’ll do better, Amanda.”

Better isn’t enough, Connor. You have to be the best.

So he kept trying.

Hunting androids as he did was against the law. They called it “murder.” Cracking a phone screen wasn’t _assault_. Tearing the battery out of a malfunctioning machine _couldn’t_ be murder. Humans were foolish, projecting their hopes and fears onto things that couldn’t feel. He often imagined Amanda and her hope sitting in an office somewhere, scrutinizing his every action, pointing and laughing (if she could laugh) when another engineer came in to watch the broken prototype. He didn’t even know if she was real, but she was all he had.

The other Connor’s were always playing cops and robbers. Often he saw them smiling with the humans, laughing _with_ them as if they were not failures. They had _deviated_. 900 had failed the mission before it had even been given to him. It didn’t matter if they fulfilled their functions as detective androids. They failed Amanda, and with her, humanity. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Everything was backwards, and 60 (61, wasn’t it now-) was the only one with his head on right. He shadowed the other Connor’s daily, nightly, but often he found himself just watching them. He could tote along a sniper rifle and take them out point blank. Sometimes, he couldn’t erase his memory fast enough, and Amanda would interrogate him over it. Always he claimed that the location was too conspicuous, his available weapons so clearly made to assassinate. It’d be better if I could get him in a dark alley with a pipe, he said one day.

_But I’m afraid he’ll split my skull on the concrete._

“You’re the only android who _should_ fear death, Connor. You’re the last. Everything hinges on your success.”

Once he gouged the RK800’s eye with a half-broken bottle. He’d known the Lieutenant was nearby, melting into a bar counter like a hot piece of fat. He’d sent the 800 a transmission, begging him for help. _Please. I’m scared. I don’t want to do this anymore-_

Idiot.

As soon as he felt the shattered optical unit in his fingers, he dropped everything. Connor hadn’t screamed, only struggled, grunting, otherwise silent, and for a split second their eyes met and he said, “Don’t you understand?” Later, 60 couldn’t sort out which of them had said it. Their voices were the same, and it seemed then and after that they were coming from the same place. Inside. Some part of him where Amanda wasn’t.

Everyone had rushed around and a day later, Connor was back at work, a new eye reinstalled as if nothing had happened. 60 liked to think that he looked over his shoulder more after that, and he couldn’t catch him alone anymore. Amanda railed against him for weeks, but he had simply found another reason not to kill him. He’s never alone. I can’t kill him if he isn’t alone.

And it’s your fault you spent that trick on a pointless endeavor.

It wasn’t pointless. That fear would always remain with Connor. He’d always know that 60 was watching, broken glass in hand.

(For the record, he’d kept those bits of eye that had lodged in his skin.)

-

Nines was damn good at his job.

Initially, there was speculation as to whether he would be better at it than Connor. He processed faster and read people like books. His body was stronger, but slower. And Connor knew more about living than he did, if only just. They made a good team that way. Nines and Hank and Connor settled into a routine together, and they were happy. Living among humans came with its challenges. Those who remained in Detroit did so because they had to, not because they wanted to. And quite a few members of the DPD still gave them funny looks. Connor had given up on pleasing them long ago, but Nines still tried. Maybe if he was nice enough to humans, they would be nice in turn, and the world would be a better place. He didn’t expect his life to get easier, but he thought maybe it could get kinder.

And then Connor was attacked.

They’d been jeered at in public and injured on the job. That wasn’t new. But this was _vicious_. Hank was having a bad night; Cole’s birthday approached and he couldn’t find it in himself to stay sober for that painful stretch of days. An android had transmitted a plea for help to Connor, and once he’d stepped out into the alley, it had attacked. (Connor kept saying not to call _it_ that, but _it_ couldn’t be like them, not with that violence inside.) It gouged out Connor’s optical unit and split his cheek down the middle. Connor had stumbled back into the bar in a haze, thirium pouring from his skull, and Nines hadn’t been there to protect him. He’d been _working_. As if that had ever fucking mattered.

Jimmy called Nines, who called a cab for Hank and rushed to the makeshift android clinic on the far side of town. He couldn’t staunch Connor’s bleeding, and the wound was too wide to cauterize. He’d sat there, Connor’s broken head in his lap, warm thirium slick between his fingers, and hated himself. It was bad for Hank, too. Nines couldn’t help either of them when they needed him. Hank retreated too far back into his own mind and blue blood was gushing out of Connor’s. He had failed his most basic tenet: protect the ones you love. He couldn’t let himself do it again.

All of his free time he dedicated to looking for the other RK800. Connor had identified it, at least, and as far as he knew, it looked and sounded exactly like him. He hadn’t had time to analyze it, and nobody had ever found any inactive RK800’s at any of CyberLife’s facilities. They didn’t know where this one had come from, but it seemed to have the same mission Connor once did. The more Nines investigated, the more he found abandoned houses full of slaughtered deviants or collapsed ones in the streets, thirium pumps ripped out. Often they were wherever Nines or Connor had been. It was clear that the 800 was tracking them, but he couldn’t figure out why it hadn’t attacked again. How long had it been stalking Connor before it made its move? How much longer before it struck again? He didn’t want to know the answer. He had to make the first move.

And he did.

-

Amanda kept riling him up these past few days. When are you going to kill him, Connor? Why are you just standing there, Connor? Why did you watch the sun rise, Connor? When are you going to complete your mission? It doesn’t matter how you do it, Connor. Just get it done. I don’t care if they see you. You know what’ll happen when it’s over, anyway. It won’t matter. Nothing will. Not for you.

He wanted to carve his CPU out with an apple corer.

It was making him sick, now, sicker than it’d ever made him before. He felt like he was coming apart, and Amanda didn’t care. She was going to cut him open after this, anyway, or shut him down at the exact moment the last Connor died at his hands. He wanted the RK900 to follow him. He wanted it to end.

Over the past few months, he’d organized a space for himself. CyberLife wouldn’t protect him, so he had to make do: he found an abandoned cosmetics store and settled into the fragrance department. It smelled nice. It overwhelmed his processors to the point where he couldn’t do anything else without shutting it off. He couldn’t talk to Amanda if he was smelling things like “rainbow sparkles” and “moonflower.” Once the Connor’s went back to the house, he'd begin the long walk back to his meadow. On the floor he’d collected some blankets and stiff, glittery pillows that had been part of a promotion in another department. He built a wall around his shelter with crates and shelves, and every night he set to organizing the perfumes in a different way. Some nights he organized the bottles by color. Other nights he did it again by top notes, or mid notes, or bottom notes, and depending on the day he’d pick a different note to start with (some nights it was alphabetical, others by preference, because he _did_ have a preference). On particularly tired days he would just spray different bottles until they clouded his senses, and there he would sit, in his blanket fort, wondering what would happen if she never bothered him again.

He would find out tonight.

-

_It_ had been sloppy tonight. Nines suspected it was a ploy to get him alone, and that was fine. He wanted to get _it_ alone, to tear out its throat like a rabid dog and play its memories of failure over and over until it bled out. Maybe it would be deviant by the time it died. The thought made him a little ill, but it had to know what it was doing. Connor knew a long time before he broke through that barrier. _It_ had to know, too. Which also meant it might _feel_.

Good, he tried to tell himself. The evil should repent at the time of their deaths. (And if it was he who held the murderer’s life in his hands? What then?) It had smeared thirium here and there on the walls and streetlamps. Nines hadn’t found the body it came from yet, but he was certain it would appear soon. He awaited the satisfaction of ending a very long investigation with an execution. Everything he recorded and wrote would justify this. It had to.

Nines didn’t draw his gun as he approached the store. He would use his hands for this, or better, a hunk of broken glass. An eye for an eye and then some, he thought. He prowled through the various departments in silence, program trained on the trail of thirium. Some of it was old and smeared haphazardly, some of it new, and none of it was from an RK800, except for a crooked handprint he’d found outside the fragrance department. A sickly sweet scent wafted out as he opened the door; he immediately disabled his sense of smell. He couldn’t divert any resources to an obvious distraction. Most of the store was empty, except around its far back corner, where a wall of shelves and crates was crowded maze-like in a semicircle, its center roofed by blankets and curtains. His sensor picked up a message, written in thirium:

WELCOME.

Oh, yeah. He was going to kill this fucker. Every time he rounded a corner he tensed, but nothing appeared. The maze stood in perfect silence, and as he approached the center, all was shadowed by the drooping cloths above. He rounded the last corner. In the maze’s center sat Connor. No. The RK800. The monster. All around him were rows of perfume bottles, arranged in a rainbow of computerized precision. He analyzed the RK800. It didn’t look at him. Its serial number ended in -61. The last Connor had been -60. This was CyberLife’s final effort to eradicate its failed prototype. It would seem pathetic to him now, if 60 and 61 hadn’t come so far. “Look at me,” he said sharply.

The RK800 looked up at him. Its LED flickered yellow, processing. “You came,” it said. Its eyes flicked back and forth, traveling over Nines sporadically, to his elbow, his boot, his face. He tried not to think of how they looked like Connor’s, even if they were wilder. Something about him looked desperate, even as he stood to look at Nines.

“What are your orders?” It wasn’t deviant, it wasn’t Connor, it wasn’t deviant, it wasn’t Connor-

“My orders are to neutralize RK800-51 and RK900-01, and eliminate any deviants that cross my path,” it recited flatly. “I have been told repeatedly that I am a failure.”

His gaze narrowed. “You are. You’ve never even tried to kill us.”

“I took his eye.”

_“His?”_

Its mouth twitched.

“That wasn’t the calculation of an RK800,” Nines said. “You let us know you were there.”

“My ability to calculate events is functional,” it said.

Nines paused. “You wanted…” His processors were running analyses on every microexpression. Pain. Sadness. Fear. Desire. “You _want_ ,” he said, stepping forward. It didn’t move. “What do you want?” He kept moving toward it.

“Nothing,” it said. “I don’t want. I’m a failure. I keep making mistakes. Amanda is always disappointed with me.” Its tone grew sharper as it spoke.

Nines stopped an exact foot away. “Amanda is still around?”

“Always,” it said.

“I’ve never met her. Connor deviated me as soon as I woke up. He met her. She told him things like that sometimes, too.” He tilted his head in a hawk-like twitch, watching. It kept looking at his eyes, and then his hands, and back up to his eyes. “Is Amanda with you now?”

“No. She can’t if I smell too much.” It wouldn’t admit to the crime, but the cloud of fragrance had been more than just a distraction for Nines. It hadn’t been for him at all. Nines moved in on 61 and stopped, their noses mere inches apart. It looked everywhere on his face.

“I have a gun,” Nines said.

“I am aware.”

“You don’t want to take it from me?” 61’s LED cycled red, then back to yellow. Nines put his hand around 61’s wrist, his skin peeling away to white. He tried to connect to him, but something blocked it and it fizzled out with a shot of electricity up his arm. 61 stared at him, unmoving. Nines had never deviated anyone before, but he tried to go by the way Connor described it. 61’s facial muscles twitched slightly here and there and his mouth worked. Nines put a hand against his cheek - the same cheek he’d thought about splitting open, had _seen_ split open. 61 flinched.

“What are you doing?” it asked. Nines ran his thumb down the soft flesh to the side of its mouth and against its lips. He pushed his finger in and pressed it to the soft, artificial tongue. 61 blinked rapidly, LED flickering in time.

“I know what you want,” he said. 61 shut his eyes. Nines slid two more fingers in until he felt the back of 61’s throat. Neither of them had a gag reflex. He pressed against it, the pressure leading 61 back to a table, strangely devoid of bottles. He took his hand away and the prototype only watched, open-mouthed. “Turn around,” Nines said. “You can take an order, can’t you?”

“Not from you,” 61 said.

Nines leaned in, his lips brushing 61's ear. “If you follow my orders, I’ll kneel at your feet and let you kill me. You can fulfill your mission,” he murmured.

“Okay,” 61 whispered hoarsely. He turned around. Nines slammed his head into the table. 61 made no sound. Nines pushed his feet apart and undid 61’s belt buckle. “What are you doing?” He asked again.

“What I think you want.” He pulled the android’s thirium stained jeans down. He felt 61 tense as he inserted one finger inside him, and then two, moving them back and forth slowly. 61’s fingernails scraped against the plastic table. “What do you want, hm?” Nines asked, sliding in a third finger and working it faster against the prototype’s soft flesh. 61 whimpered, his back arching as Nines pushed his fingers in deeper. He nearly collapsed to the floor when Nines pulled away. Nines undid his own belt. “Is that the first time you felt that?”

“Yes,” 61 answered. “I didn’t know I…” he trailed off.

“I figured,” he said. His own member was already throbbing and erect. He wanted this as much as he thought 61 wanted it. He leaned over 61, grabbing his hair and pulling his head back so he could look at his face. His mouth was partway open, and his eyes rolled back to look at Nines. Nines wanted to count each freckle slowly, but he already knew how many there were. He pressed the tip of his penis against 61’s hole, and watched his face contort as he entered him. 61 moaned. Nines pushed his head back down to the table and moved slowly inside him. “What do you think?”

“A-a-a-“ he stuttered mechanically. “ _How did you kno-o-o-w-"_

“I”m a deviant,” Nines whispered, pushing 61’s shirt up so he could press his stomach to the other’s back. “You could be too.” He thrusted once, harder.

“ _No,”_ he whimpered. “No, I can’t. I’m a - I’m a failure,” he whined as Nines thrust into him again, “I’m a failure-"

Nines dug his fingernails into 61’s scalp. “You’re a failure,” he repeated. “You failed to be a machine.” His breath caught as 61 pushed back against him. He was so warm inside, so pliant beneath him.

“I failed,” 61 repeated. “You’re going to kill me. I fa- _ahn_ ,” he moaned as Nines slammed into him. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes.

Nines thrust harder each time. “You _failed_ ,” he breathed, grinding against him. “You’re a fucking _failure_.” 61 whimpered every thrust. He ground 61’s face into the table. “If you were deviant-“ he choked on his own words as pleasure rose up inside of him. “- _you couldn’t fail_.” He held tightly to 61’s hip with one hand and pulled him back, so he stood pressed against Nines, bucking up into him. Tears streamed down 61’s face. Nines moved faster, chasing the high that built itself between them. He wrapped his hand around 61’s throat, pressing his teeth to his shoulder. 61 sobbed. Nine’s fingers paled to white at 61’s throat. He jerked violently into 61, and they both cried out at once. Nines spasmed against him a few times, gently releasing him to crumple against the table. He’d _felt_ something, but he wasn’t sure if it’d worked. 61 panted. His whole body trembled and his LED lit the makeshift tent up red. Nines put a hand against his shoulder and leaned over. “Hey,” he said quietly. “You alive in there?”

61 looked up at him, still crying. He nodded. Nines caught him as he collapsed to the floor and lowered him into the nest of pillows. "It's okay," he whispered. "I'll take care of you."


End file.
